Why Raven is Black

Long ago, Raven was white, white with wings the colors of the rainbow. Handsome, and the sweetest singer in the land.

But little good his plumage did him when the sun set, for in those days there was no fire, and people huddled together when darkness fell. The nights were cold.

One night, Raven stood from his shivering perch.  “Ga. This is not right. What we need is fire.  The sun has fire; why should’t we?”

Snapping off a long, thick branch, Raven fashioned a firebrand and took off flying. He flew, on and on and on, until he reached the edge of the world.

Reaching the sun, he poked his branch into it and caught fire on it, and off he flew in the direction of home. Faster and faster he flew. But the fire was eating at the branch. Faster and faster he flew. The smoke caught in his lungs. Faster and faster. The fire singed his feathers and the smoke clung to him. He was nearly home when the fire reached his beak, and he swallowed burning coals. Finally, he landed, feeding the fire with pine branches. In the firelight, he looked himself over. Now he was black as night, his voice choked and hoarse with smoke. And with coals burning in his belly, he was hungry, hungry, so hungry.  But Fire had come to Earth.

“Ga,” said Raven, “it is good.”